“Are you aware of the comings and goings to Dr. Hornsby’s office?”
She gave a little shrug, wrinkling her nose. “I’m not in the habit of prying into the concerns of other people.”
“Well, then, what about your husband. Did he at any time enter Dr. Hornsby’s office before or after consultation hours?”
“I don’t keep track of my husband’s every move. And he doesn’t keep track of mine.” The invitation in her eyes couldn’t be clearer. He’d forgotten what it was like to be flirted with, or rather, to be aware of being flirted with. He knew it was his awareness that made him different tonight. He took a deep breath and tried to focus.
“Do either of you know anything about electricity?”
“What would we know?”
“That’s what I’m asking.”
“It makes bulbs light up.”
“Nothing more?”
“I tried one of those electric hair curlers that you screw into the light socket, but it burnt my hair so I got rid of it.”
“Has your husband had any training with electrical devices? At work, perhaps?”
“Not that he’s ever told me.”
With her hair over her shoulder, and her eyes half-closed, she looked more than ever like Rachel. Yet unlike Rachel, she was so easy to read, her every thought and emotion verbalized, her attempt at seducing him blatant.
“Your husband is cruel, you said?”
He looked at her, waiting for her to elaborate, knowing she wanted to.
“He hits me, if you must know. Forces me to submit to him. Is that clear enough?”
Her demeanor had changed, hardened. Gone was the playfulness. In its place was what, hatred? No, it was more controlled than that. And colder.
He thought of what he’d observed of them today at lunch. Appearances could be deceiving—his own marriage had looked idyllic from the outside. But the power roles were off here. His own wife in public had fawned on him, not been demanding. Or was that the game of the Thompsons’ marriage, in private he dominated then regretted, and in public she had control?
“Why do you stay with him?”
“I could say I made a vow, but that’s not why. The truth is I’m afraid to leave him, to be on my own. Who would take care of me? I suppose I’ll have to figure it out soon enough. Now he’s dying, I’ll be left alone.”
“His condition is that serious?”
“He took a turn for the worse the other night, I thought he wouldn’t recover. He had a reaction to the glowing sand. Did you see it? No, you weren’t here. The ocean and sand were blue, all sparkly blue. Frightening and thrilling at the same time. I told Freddie he should stay away from it. A man in his condition, already weak, shouldn’t dip his hands in phosphorus. Everyone knows phosphorus is poisonous. But he wouldn’t listen. He swam in it. Well, I tried. He was sick in the night, miserable. What did he expect? He must not have swallowed much though, he wasn’t glowing.”
Anger flashed through Bradshaw. He wanted to tell her not to be so stupid. It wasn’t phosphorus in the water that made it glow. Phosphorus was a mineral, a chemical element. Yes, it glowed, but that didn’t mean everything that glowed contained phosphorus. What silenced him was the knowledge he would be explaining out of anger, to belittle her. He felt the urge to be mean. He wanted to tell her she was stupid and selfish and ridiculous, her flirtation obvious and unwelcome. But he possessed enough self-awareness to know he was angry at himself, not Ingrid Thompson. Angry that he’d been told what he so longed to hear from Missouri and he still could not decide what to do.
He looked at Mrs. Thompson with a critical eye. “You don’t wear the felt slippers provided?”
“Oh, no. They’re too flat. I need a heel or my back hurts.” She lifted a small foot and rotated her ankle to display the silk house-shoes with the low heel, material unsuitable for street or beach use. They would have been ruined had she worn them on the beach. “Freddie sent for these from Aberdeen. We put felt on the bottom so the doctor couldn’t complain.” She yawned again without apology. “Are we done, Professor?”
“Yes, thank you, Mrs. Thompson. I’ll find you if I have more questions.”
She rose from the rocker and headed for the front door. She had a sturdy stride with a feminine swing, making him think again of hardy peasants. He looked toward Freddie, a stick of a man, hunched with illness, arms hanging limp at his sides. If he’d ever forced himself on his wife, surely those days were over.
Chapter Thirteen
That night, he didn’t sleep. He sat on the porch of his small cabin, wrapped in a wool blanket, watching the ocean, the white foam crests illuminated by starlight. There wasn’t much wind. Gentle steady waves built to a deep rumble, a small crash, and a hiss of withdrawal.
The hotel in Everett near the theater, where he’d stayed with Ann, had been near the waterfront. In the early morning hours when all was still, the gentle wash of the tide would carry through the open window. Just as they were drifting off to sleep, they’d hear the sea birds waking. He’d met Ann while working on a case. She’d been the lead actress at the Seattle Grand, and still was, when she wasn’t touring. She had generous curves, a big voice, and a bigger heart. The audiences loved her. And Bradshaw? What did he feel for her? They’d actually talked about love and decided the word didn’t fit them, not in the romantic sense. Which made them laugh considering where they were when they made that decision. He said he adored her, and she said good, and they’d laughed again. He’d thought how shocked his friends and colleagues would be if they’d seen him laughing so much. His laughter would likely surprise them more than his affair.
Ann had a colorful and at times troubled life, only she handled trauma with much more aplomb then he did, finding humor in dark moments, and proverbial silver linings in every cloud. Which reminded him of Missouri.
Missouri knew about Ann. He groaned and hugged the blanket more tightly around his shoulders against the cold night wind.
How had she known? And how could she approve? In hindsight, yes, the relationship had been liberating. But Missouri’s approval staggered him, as did her pronouncement today. She loved him. Yet it seemed impossible he could ever have with her what he’d had with Ann. He’d had nothing to lose with Ann. He’d not feared harming her or changing her or holding her back from what her life could be.
Missouri was different. With Missouri, everything was at stake.
At dawn, Justin came padding across the sand barefoot, dressed in beach clothes under his wool jacket.
Bradshaw said, “You’re up early.”
“I’m going exploring,” he said, but he squeezed into the rocker with Bradshaw, and they rocked companionably watching the sky brighten and seagulls dive for their breakfast.
“Where’s Paul?”
“Sleeping. He snores. Will you have to work all day?”
“I don’t yet know. I’m sorry I missed your sand castle yesterday. Did the crabs attack?”
“No, they ran away. Paul and I are going to build a fort with driftwood. Is that OK?”
“Yes, I think that’s a fine plan.”
“Could you come see it when it’s done?”
“Build it out of the reach of the tide, and I’ll be sure to see it.”
“Did you figure out yet how Mr. Hollister died?”
“No, son. I’m still investigating.”
“Did Doctor Hornsby make a mistake with the settings?”
“No, he did nothing wrong.”
“Paul said that if the doctor didn’t mess up, then Mr. Hollister must have done it himself.”
“What do you mean, son?”
“Mr. Hollister must have done something to make the machine deadly. It couldn’t have killed anyone otherwise. You showed it to me when you built it. I was just a kid then, only in the first grade, but I remember. Why would someone do that to the machine?”
“That’s a question I can’t yet answer.”
“Paul says Mr. Hollister might have wanted
to die. He said that’s called suicide.”
The dread word caught Bradshaw by surprise. He managed to say, “Paul certainly has a breadth of knowledge beyond his years.”
“It’s because he’s got big sisters. They talk all the time, on and on and on.”
“Some people are like that.”
“You’re not. You don’t talk unless you’ve got something important to say.”
“Thank you, son.”
“So it’s true? That sometimes people do kill themselves?”
What should he say? For the past decade, he knew he would one day need to have such a conversation with Justin. Several times the secret of his mother’s suicide had been used as a threat. It would be better for Justin to hear it from him than from anyone else. But now? The boy was too young. He couldn’t.
He said carefully, “Sometimes people who aren’t well feel so bad they don’t want to go on living. There are some illnesses doctors don’t yet know how to fix.”
Justin turned and looked at him, searching his eyes. “Was my mother one of those sick people who didn’t want to go on living?”
It was as if the air had vanished. Bradshaw couldn’t breathe. What had he said? How had the boy guessed?
Justin said, “You used the voice you always use when I ask about her.”
“I use a different voice?”
“It’s real quiet. Like you’re afraid of hurting me. Is that why you’re always so sad when you talk about her?”
Bradshaw nodded, hating he was admitting it, knowing he could do nothing else. “Yes, son. The doctors couldn’t help her.” He wrapped his arm around the boy and held him tight, resting his cheek on the boy’s fair head.
Justin knew. The horrible secret was out. No details, those would come later. He felt no measure of relief that he no longer had to hide the fact. A weight had sunk like cement to his gut and there he was sure it would remain forever. He was sick that his son now knew something so awful.
Justin said, “You wouldn’t ever want to die, would you?”
“No, never.”
“What if you got sick? Something the doctor’s couldn’t fix?”
“I would always want to live to see what sort of mischief you’ve been up to.”
“Promise?”
“I promise. In fact, I think I’ll aim for a hundred and two, so that I can see all the mischief your grandchildren get up to.”
“A hundred and two! How old are you now?”
“I turned thirty-eight in June.”
Justin was quick with mental arithmetic. “That would mean you’ll live until 1967!”
“What do you suppose will have been invented by then, son?”
“Oh, flying machines, for sure. Maybe even spaceships.”
“You think? That’s not just the stuff of fiction?”
“If you can imagine it, you can make it, isn’t that what you always tell me?”
“I do. Glad to hear you’ve been listening.” His stomached growled so loudly, Justin began to laugh.
“Maybe we should go up to the house and see if there’s any breakfast.”
“Oh, it’ll be another hour or so yet. How about we go explore the beach together until then.”
“Really? You’ll come with me?” Justin jumped up. “Come on, there’s a gigantic starfish trapped in a pool you’ve got to see!”
Chapter Fourteen
A rich, warm fragrance greeted them in the dining room, and for a moment Bradshaw silently begged, please let there be coffee. The origin of the teasing aroma turned out to be brewed roasted barley. Mellow, slightly sweet, non-stimulating. His taste buds told him it wasn’t coffee or Postum, his favored evening drink, but it was better than anything he’d been served thus far.
As Justin was busy dishing up his breakfast in the kitchen, Bradshaw pulled Mrs. Prouty out into the hall. Her broad face showed a touch of color, and the tip of her nose was pink from the sun. Her solid and sturdy no-nonsense stance bolstered Bradshaw even though the red stripes of her bathing costume showed though her shirtwaist. Ten years ago, when Mrs. Prouty was newly arrived from England, he’d chosen her from a lineup of housekeepers, and today he was especially grateful for her unwavering presence in Justin’s life.
“What is it, Professor? You look a fright this morning. Not sleeping well? You know how you get when you don’t sleep. You black out. Remember when you lost a whole day when you were searching for that peddler’s child? You do that here and the tide’ll come take you away.”
“Mrs. Prouty, it’s about Justin. He has learned that his mother’s death was self-inflicted.”
She gave a small gasp, but otherwise took the news with her usual fortitude.
“He doesn’t know any details. He believes she was ill and unhappy and the doctors couldn’t help her. I wanted you to know in case he asks questions or he seems quiet or upset.”
“Why did you tell him?”
“I didn’t, he guessed. With everything happening here, he began thinking. The important thing now is to keep an eye on him.”
“As his father, it’s your place to answer his questions. What would you like me to say if he asks me anything?”
“If they’re general questions, and you feel comfortable, answer them, otherwise, tell him to come see me.”
“I’m so sorry, Professor.”
“Me, too.”
When they returned to the kitchen, false smiles on their faces, Bradshaw tried to bypass the grain portion of the meal, but Mrs. Hornsby caught him with just the barley drink and berries and offered him fat slices of sourdough bread lavishly buttered. It was only after he accepted that he realized the butter today was dark yellow, not pale.
He and Mrs. Prouty joined Justin and Paul. They appeared their usual, boyish selves. Had Justin told Paul, he wondered? And might not that be a good thing? Paul was a worldly little fellow who liked to boast of his acquired knowledge, finding the world’s traumas a constant source of entertainment. Yet the more sensational, the more he liked to shrug and take it in stride.
Each boy now sat before a bowl of congealed fermented millet, topped with wild blueberries. The millet was lighter in texture than the oats had been, and slimier. Bradshaw was slightly queasy watching the boys devour it. All the fresh air had made them ravenous and less picky than they tended to be at home. A tentative bite told him what he feared—fishy. Mrs. Thompson’s trick of avoiding breathing through the nose helped, but it was far from an enjoyable meal.
The Thompsons ate alone. Freddie served them both while Ingrid sat immersed in an issue of The Smart Set: A Magazine of Cleverness. Bradshaw had seen a copy of that once. Once was enough. Long, dreary stories of society and fashion and the sort of events and romantic maneuverings he avoided like the plague. Little quips and jokes and poems of indecisive women longing for hats and men and devotion. He gave a little shudder and continued his perusal of the room.
Like yesterday, Loomis and Moss sat together, eating solitary meals, speaking not at all. Did their silent companionship mean anything? Or did they simply not like to eat a meal in public alone?
The chatter of his students and Mrs. Prouty, along with the clink of utensils, lent a gay normalcy from which Bradshaw felt excluded. Missouri had not come to breakfast.
To quiet his grumbling stomach, he finished his bread and barley tea before heading out to the beach with his students to get them started on their project for the day.
“Look about you,” he told the four young men, for Colin and Henry had not yet returned, “and observe a bounty of energy sources. How many can you name?”
“Wind, sun, water, wood,” chanted Knut.
“Yes, any more?”
“Chemical?” asked Miles. “Like acids, salts, minerals?”
“Yes, any more?”
“Oil maybe? Or natural gas?”
“Possibly, someone down the coast is hoping so. Any more?”
“Whales,” said Oren. “You know, blubber.”
“Not easy to s
ecure, but yes. There are even more energy sources, and as you go through the day, take note of any you think of. Your mission today is to harness a source of energy to produce electric power. You may use anything from the crate.” He waved his hand over the supply he’d brought of odds and ends from the engineering lab. “And anything you can scavenge from the beach or woods. You are not to take anything that is the property of Healing Sands.”
They reached into the crate and began pulling out items, debating about what energy source to use until Knut shouted, “Hey, they’re back!”
With a long toot of a ridiculous sounding horn, Henry and Colin inched their way across the shallowest portion of the creek, and once successfully across, raced toward them on the hard-packed sand. The lesson was momentarily interrupted to welcome them back. Justin and Paul came running, and even Mrs. Prouty got up from her beach chair to greet Henry and Colin as if they’d been on a long adventure rather than an overnighter to Hoquiam.
Henry had brought kite kits for the small boys, which earned him hugs, and chocolate for Mrs. Prouty, which earned him a smile. Colin had brought back the makings of a large box kite and asked permission to build it.
“Like the Wrights built a few years ago. The conditions are perfect here for flying it.”
Bradshaw considered the request a moment and decided Colin’s enthusiasm was the sort that fueled invention. And he liked the idea that this additional project would keep him too busy to make puppy eyes at Missouri. “Yes, but build it near the others so that you can take part in the assignment. The others will explain.”
“Someone else is coming!” Paul pointed toward the creek at a horse-drawn wagon.
Henry said, “That’s the postman. We came across on the same steamer.” He lifted a hand in greeting as the driver leaped from the wagon with his mail bag and gave a hearty hail before hurrying up to the house. He dropped the bag on the porch and was on his way with a wave.
Henry said, “He’s gotta get a move on or he’ll miss the tide further up. You free?”
“In a minute. I need to get my students set up.”
Capacity for Murder (Professor Bradshaw Mysteries) Page 10